1. Eighteen Hours of Rain


    Date: 8/26/2015, Categories: Historical, Author: flytoomuch, Rating: , Source: LushStories

    some credence to her audacious tale. Yes there was her beauty. Then, of course, there were the pearls. Svetlana was wearing the pearl choker that night. She told me she wore it every day of her life. I examined the choker of pearls carefully. Well I was sceptical? Aren’t you? Someone tells you a fantastic tale? Are you just going to believe them? The jeweller’s mark was from the jeweller on commission to Her Majesty the Queen. The pearls around her slender neck were the genuine article. Lastly she remembered the exact date: October 19, 1955. She said it had rained all day. Svetlana claimed that in her youth her memory was perfect. I believed Svetlana enough to scurry back to my dingy hotel room, smoke a Java Gold Russian cigarette, and write it all down in my diary. This was serious spy novel shit. Svetlana swore me to secrecy. I was not to speak a single word of her story until she was dead. She trusted me. I had given my word as a gentleman. She made me say the words, “as a gentleman.” If you had met her you would understand what I mean. She came from an era when women wore hats and gloves. Oh and men were “gentlemen.” So until now I have carried this story inside. With the email from her son Jean I was free of that gentleman’s promise. So here goes. Mayfair Apartment, London, October 19, 1955 Svetlana gazed out the window of the large Mayfair apartment. The tailored black satin Chanel dress made her feel so wonderful she almost didn’t want to take it off. Jean had bought ...
    the dress for her at Harrods on the fourth floor. The little black couture dress was a real treat for a Russian girl from the boonies. Svetlana took a draw on her cigarette. She held the cigarette in a long elegant slender cigarette holder made from black Bakelite and Sterling silver. She ran her gloved hand over the soft silky satin of her dress. The attractive young Russian’s left hand reached up to touch the single-strand pearl choker around her neck. Such luxury still felt new. Setting her cigarette down Svetlana carefully removed her long matching black satin gloves by tugging on the fingers. A lady always wore gloves. Now with her hand bare she touched the smooth pearls again, fingering them thoughtfully. She sighed. Only with her naked skin could she appreciate the perfection of each large pearl. Jean had purchased the choker for Svetlana in a rash fit of passion. There had been a wild night of fucking. He had insisted they memorialise the occasion with something special. Jean was like that: a romantic at heart. The spectacular choker was comprised of thirty-four perfectly matched twelve-millimetre South Sea pearls. Each pearl was identical with no imperfections. The clasp was platinum with the jeweller’s mark embossed. When the payment was made Jean had been the complete gentleman. Svetlana had no idea how much they cost. Beyond the windowpane London was dark, cold and rainy. It was Wednesday October 19, 1955. It rained almost all day in London that day. For eighteen ...
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